The vague distant enraged rumblings of the forgotten gods of old strike my eardrums and invite me outside. The mumbles and grumbles of these ancient beings that never left us still comfort us, scare us and welcome us into the unpredictable arms of their mother and all her wild forces. With my waterproof jacket on, I step out, lured by the call of a storm. The dark grey cloud bellowed as it neared, crawling over the peak before me, it was old and slow. Pink, white and purple flashes emanated from deep within the cloud filling the sky, making itself visible.
I decide to take shelter under the eaves of and old Victorian train station. From here I would watch the old beast in all its glory as it travelled north, perhaps seeking worship from the Northmen as it once did millennia ago. It was then when I felt it, it was here. The wind picked up and with it came the rain. The smell of dust unsettled from the ground, the scent of a storm. People carried on about their business, walking by without paying any attention to the storm. It knew and it was not happy. Trees began to sway and road signs swung with a sense of urgency.
The cloud now, above unleashed its anger. Bright tendrils of light spread through the belly of this creature in the sky. The wind and rain joined forces assaulting everything it touched. People screaming and running for cover but the screams were muted and out matched by the perpetual and thunderous roar from above. Standing behind a pillar I was safe, excitedly watching the waves of rain thrash the ground, watching the roads turn to rivers and the world shake under such unhindered power to the greatest sound and light show I have ever seen.
This continued for 30 minutes. The centre of the storm had passed, moved on to torment or elate other descendants of its flock and I decided to walk home in the rain, with a smile on my face hearing once again the distant enraged rumblings of old gods that can never be forgotten.
He strolled along the precipice, gazing into the blackness that would one day consume him. He looks away back to the reality he abhors, back to looking at the ground, away from judging eyes. He never quite knew why he couldn’t look into their eyes, whether it was the fear of being judged or the fear of seeing their emotions, empathising with them, seeing all their pains and tragedies. He had enough of those, he didn’t need more. “Why don’t I just fall? Let it consume me. What is this force that keeps me going? It would be so much easier.” He wondered, taking comfort in his inevitable demise, his inevitable plummet into the depths of his own darkness. He walked home hoping a tragedy would befall him, every corner a new hopeful danger, removing him from his responsibilities, the responsibilities of being the harbinger of his own end. He arrives home safely, “Not today.”
The Harbour Master had many boats in his harbour, some old and reliable, some new and shiny, some broken and tattered but either way he loved and cared for them all. Most eventually sail away and find a new harbour but those few that never leave and never will, well, they were special. His harbour was nearly in ruin but he held it together with bits of old mooring lines from boats that left and ships that sank like scars of the past, memories committed to the shallow waters, just under the surface, warped and never quite forgotten. Although the harbour was nothing to look at the boats were in good hands, the Harbour Master kept them close in stormy weather, stopped them from floating away into uncertain waters and patched them up best he could when they got damaged, usually by bigger careless boats. Some of the Harbour Master’s boats were too damaged and beyond his help, he learned that sometimes it’s best to let some boats go and set them adrift, hoping they will find their way instead of staying lost at sea. One thing he knew for certain, his inevitable end, that caring for all these boats, giving all he has in his tattered harbour, he will be the one to eventually sink.